Soldier's Story

Soldier’s story
I scan the hills,
the trees around me.
My eyes are drawn to the thousands
of tiny black squares.
I turn around toward the mountains.
The shining white peaks
make me shiver.
I look down.
Far below sheep eat the life
off the rolling hills,
oblivious.

The one plaque that stood out the most,
said the name
Trevor Webster.
Next to him in the earth lay
his other half. Maisie Webster
died in the year 2007 at the age of 90
and 4 days.
She died happy,
with memories of the life behind,
and thoughts of her husband
that she will meet in the skies.

The war did this deed;
introduced them to each other.
Their story begins
in the small town of Marton.
Trevor was just a teenager,
when he signed up for the job of a lifetime.
He was to fight for his country,
but not only his own. England was his country too.
Gallipoli trenches would now be his home.

Trevor had no family,
he lived for himself.
He had friends though, who cared for him
and didn’t want him to be lonely.
Outside the library a notice read:
pen friend wanted!
The young girl named Maisie took note of the name.

She wrote to Trevor throughout the whole war.
Amongst the gun shots and shrapnel flying,
fighting on the lines,
the only thing that kept him going
were those letters every month.

Dearest Trevor,
how goes the battle.
We are winning I expect.
The British always were known
for being the strongest country.

Dearest Maisie,
the war is being won,
as you rightly expect.
I should be home soon.
I am awaiting your next correspondence.
Until then, I read your previous letters
over and over, to comfort me
in the trench battle.

They became best of friends
and vowed to meet on Trevor’s return.
The teenagers became close, the closeness became
love.
They meet and it was clear,
it was meant to be.

The young couple wed on the day we won the war.

Now I scan the hills,
the trees around me.
My eyes are drawn to the thousands
of tiny black squares.
I turn around toward the mountains.
The shining white peaks
make me shiver.
I look down.
Far below sheep eat the life
off the rolling hills,
oblivious.



Other soldiers were not so fortunate.
The countless plaques around me
represent the men who died for me,
for the rest of New Zealand,
for the World.

Without them,
who would we be?
Would we be Japanese, German, Soviet?
These men were in the war dodging bullets
and living
where the rats live.
The men who survived,
their friends left them in the ditch.
While the dead looked over
the survivors in heaven,
the women were back at home,
looking after the children, the kitchen,
the motherland.
They died for us.

Near the small black squares
in the ground lay flowers,
red for the bloodshed,
the lives spared,
and the love spread.